


Like Blood From a Stone

by M_Monoceros



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Enemies With Benefits, Jughead Has a Tragic Backstory, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, a bit of angst, attempted banter, no one knows how to talk about their feelings, referenced one-sided Jarchie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11137032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Monoceros/pseuds/M_Monoceros
Summary: It's raining when Reggie finds Jughead on the side of the road, wet and miserable and with nowhere else to go. He offers to let him spend the night, and, against his better judgement, Jughead agrees.It isn't the first time they've hooked up, and it's actually kind of...nice?But of course, things are never that simple...Set before the events of season one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [Beekeeper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRrer1toZX4) by Keaton Henson. Original prompt is [here.](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=45132#cmt45132)
> 
> Leave me a comment and let me know what you think! :)

Jughead was practically invisible here, huddled under the old overpass just off the highway. 

At least, that’s what he'd told himself when the miserable weather and his own exhaustion had finally forced him to take cover. He still felt exposed like this, but he didn't have much choice: it was getting dark and he was tired and soaked to the core. 

He sighed and tapped his feet on the ground, trying to shake the numbness from his toes. His socks squelched unpleasantly in his shoes.

At least it was kind of peaceful here, despite everything. The sky was a soft white-gray, and vaguely he thought that if he had his computer with him he might be able to write something more-or-less poetic about it; something evocative of the strange, lonely nostalgia the rain always seemed to carry with it. But his computer—along with his books, most of his clothes, and everything but the bare necessities—was tucked safely into his locker at school.

Just a few hours earlier, he’d returned to the vacant basement suite where he’d been squatting to discover that the owners had unexpectedly found a new tenant. He couldn’t go back to his dad’s, and he couldn’t spend another night at Pop’s without attracting the wrong kind of attention. The drive-in was out, too, because he was only working part time and he hadn’t had a shift in weeks. So he’d stored his stuff at school and hit the pavement, hoping inspiration would strike. When it started to rain, he'd looked harder. When it started to _pour,_ he'd conceded defeat and settled for whatever shelter he could find. The overpass was good enough: visibility was low and no one was out on the road, so he wasn’t too worried about being spotted.

He would just have to wait it out.

Jughead folded his arms and rested his head on his knees. After a while, the white noise of the rain and the occasional passing car blurred into a soothing static hum, and his eyelids started to droop.

“Jones?”

Jughead’s head snapped up. The sky had grown darker since he'd nodded off, and the figure walking towards him was backlit by the headlights of an idling car.

“Jones? That you?” The voice was familiar, though he had never heard it sound so uncertain. Jughead squinted, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the headlights.

“Always a pleasure, Reg,” he said dryly, trying to stifle the chatter of his teeth. He was shivering hard, and after sitting for so long on the concrete he was chilled to the bone.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Jughead didn’t have a good answer, so he said nothing. He was waiting for the first strike—something about him being a weirdo, a junkie, or a criminal no doubt—mentally crafting a list of comebacks. But Reggie only shifted uncomfortably and looked out into the rain.

“It’s raining really hard.”

“Gee, I hadn’t noticed,” Jughead muttered. He stood up as casually as he could, wincing at the stiffness of his muscles. When he grabbed the wall for support Reggie stepped forward as if to catch him, but seemed to think better of it, disguising the movement by running a hand through his hair.

“Are you… Are you cool? Or…”

Jughead avoided his eyes. He wasn’t sure if Reggie was smart enough to connect the dots, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out.

“Just out for a walk. Needed some air,” he said.

“Okay.”

Jughead bristled. “What?”

“Just… it’s raining really hard.”

“Yeah, I think we’ve established that.”

“Were you, uh… were you gonna sleep out here?”

“Why the hell do you care?” Jughead shot back.

“’Cause that’s stupid,” Reggie huffed. “It’s raining really—”

“Really hard? Yeah, thanks for the stimulating discussion, but I gotta take off. See you around, I guess.” He heaved his backpack onto his shoulder and made to leave.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, dude.”

Jughead took a long, deep breath and turned to face Reggie.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, gimme a break, Oliver Twist,” Reggie said. His usual bravado was back full force, and Jughead found it kind of comforting—if not endlessly irritating. “What, your parents kick you out or something?”

Jughead glowered at him.

“Boohoo. You’re not that special, River Phoenix. So what, you’re gonna sleep under an overpass? What are you, a fucking bridge troll? Get in the car, dumbass.”

Jughead watched Reggie stalk back to his vehicle. He only hesitated for a few moments before he followed, hating himself every step of the way.

*

Reggie’s house was a large property on the outskirts of town. Nowhere near as lavish as Thornhill, but still a few steps up from Archie’s quaint, white-picket number. The driveway was long and winding, lined on either side with lush vegetation. Crooked trees dotted the garden, casting eerie silhouettes through the mist. When they pulled into the garage, Jughead frowned at the car parked in the spot beside them.

“Don’t worry, my parents are out of town,” Reggie explained when he saw Jughead’s face. “So make all the noise you want, or whatever—just don’t drip on all my shit,” he added with a pointed glance back at Jughead’s soaking shoes.

Jughead followed him through a series of hallways and sitting rooms, scowling at the rich, yet still tasteful, décor.

“You have like fifteen bedrooms and I'm stuck in here with you?” Jughead asked as Reggie led him into his room. It was small, and not that different from any other teenage boy’s room: the floor was littered with clothing, dirty dishes, and assorted food wrappers, and beneath overtones of cologne there was the cloying scent of sweat and skin. Despite Jughead’s complaints, he felt much more at ease as soon as he set foot inside.

They stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. Reggie fidgeted with a button on his sweater.

Jughead wondered if he was thinking about the last time they had been alone together. It had been raining that day, too, when they had met under the bleachers after school, after everyone else had gone home. The memory made his cheeks burn. He avoided Reggie’s eye and instead surveyed the miscellaneous trophies and ribbons stacked proudly on top of his dresser.  

“I didn’t know you were a pageant queen,” Jughead remarked, brushing the dust off of a very large first place medal.

Reggie snorted. “Oh yeah, love the dresses.”

“So where’s the wig collection?”

“Hm, can’t remember. Check bedroom number twelve.”

Jughead fought back a small smile. “Well that’s just inconvenient.”

He turned and walked over to Reggie’s bed, kicked off his sopping shoes, and flopped down with a long sigh. He closed his eyes and inhaled, breathing in the sharp, musty smell. If he forgot where he was, he could almost pretend this was his own bed… but no, it was too unfamiliar for that. Archie’s bed, maybe.

The thought sent a shiver through him. Yes, with almost no effort at all he could imagine he was in Archie’s room right now, where they had spent so much time as kids. Playing video games, reading, talking for hours about nothing in particular.

Jughead imagined these were Archie’s sheets; that this was Archie’s pillow. He imagined it was Archie’s knee between his legs, depressing the mattress with a muted creak; imagined it was Archie’s breath on his lips.

Jughead cracked an eye open, and Reggie’s face loomed in front of him. He closed it again and snaked a hand up behind Reggie’s head, drawing him closer and bringing their lips together.

Reggie tasted like mint, and Jughead wondered if that was on purpose. The thought was laughable—Reggie Mantle, trying to impress the school outcast with impeccable oral hygiene? Unlikely. But then again, nothing about this was _likely._

He trailed his fingertips over the firm muscles of Reggie’s abdomen. In response Reggie shuddered and deepened the kiss; his own hands moved to Jughead’s stomach, rucking up his shirt insistently until Jughead finally pulled it over his head (carefully, so that his beanie remained in place).

They had done this before, a few times. The first time had been... unintentional. Well, as unintentional as fooling around with your high school tormentor could be.

It happened at Archie’s birthday party. Jughead would never have gone if Archie hadn’t _insisted_ that he be there, refusing to take no for an answer or accept any of Jughead’s lame excuses. Of course, the entire football team had ended up crashing the party like they always did, so the whole night Jughead mostly sat with Vegas in the corner, trying to avoid attracting any attention to himself. Somewhere along the way Archie had pressed a red Solo cup into his hand apologetically, and Jughead didn’t have anything better to do, so he drank it. And the next one. And the one after that.

As soon as Reggie had seen him, he had zeroed in like a missile. Their “conversation” (if you could call it that) had started out like it always did—frosty insults and barbed pop culture references—but had quickly devolved into something more heated than normal. Despite Jughead’s many attempts to evade him, Reggie followed him around the whole night, pestering him, until Jughead was just about ready to punch him in the throat. And then they were alone, and just when Jughead was winding back his fist, Reggie had kissed him.

And though it wasn’t quite the release he had been anticipating, he had gone with it. Because he was drunk, probably, but also because of how good Reggie’s mouth felt. Fucking was almost as good as fighting, anyways; at least Jughead knew how to do it properly.

The morning after the party, Jughead woke with a wicked hangover and a strong suspicion that he had dreamed the whole thing. Well, until he looked in the mirror and saw the angry necklace of purple bruises decorating his collar bone.

He assumed that would be the end of it. A one-off, drunken hookup. At school, Reggie had treated him exactly the same as he always had. If anything, he was even more cruel.

Until, one dark and stormy winter night at Pop’s, Reggie had strode in with sleet in his hair and hungry look about him like a character in a film noir detective story. Their eyes had locked and minutes later Jughead found himself in the back seat of Reggie’s car with his pants around his ankles _(how romantic)_. The next time, they met in the locker room at school; the time after that, under the bleachers in the rain. At this point, Jughead supposed it was difficult to call their encounters accidental.

He let out a soft groan as Reggie undid his jeans and slid a hand into his boxers. He cupped Jughead's cock, massaging him roughly, and Jughead arched his back and pulled him closer.

They had never talked about it, of course (they never really talked about anything) but Jughead suspected Reggie hadn’t done this too many times before; not with other guys, at least. Jughead, on the other hand… Well. He had done what he had to do to survive.

Reggie pulled away and stood up. He stripped off his clothing one piece at a time until he was naked, and for a minute Jughead let himself admire how he looked: perfectly sculpted, all smooth muscle, his dick hard, flushed deep pink and leaking. Reggie noticed him staring and grinned.

“Like what you see?”

“Oh my god,” Jughead muttered. “Are you flexing?”

Reggie smirked at him, utterly unconcerned with his own vanity. “Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“Take it off,” Reggie ordered. Jughead bristled at the command, but complied—he pulled off his boxers and jeans and flung them in Reggie’s face.

Reggie parried the bundle of clothing and returned to his place between Jughead’s legs. He ran his hands up Jughead’s thighs, tangling his fingers in the soft black hair at the base of his cock.

“You’re pretty. Like a girl,” Reggie said. It was almost an accusation.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night,” Jughead retorted. _Also,_ _not original_ , he wanted to say, but the words caught in his throat as Reggie bent to take the head of his cock in his mouth. He sunk down with a low sound of satisfaction—almost a moan, if Reggie Mantle was capable of such a thing—clutching Jughead’s hips so hard he wondered if he’d have bruises tomorrow.

Reggie’s rhythm was rough and wet, all teeth and wrong angles, but Jughead didn’t mind. He would rather that than something false—something soft or tender. There was an honesty about it that Jughead appreciated. He didn’t deserve softness, anyways.

He craned his neck to look at Reggie. His lips were red and wet around Jughead’s cock, and Jughead smirked as the word “pretty” floated through his head. He kept the thought to himself.

Exhaling slowly, he moved his hips to meet Reggie’s mouth; Reggie coughed a little, but didn’t stop, and Jughead jerked in surprise when he felt a finger pressing into him experimentally. He tensed for a moment as Reggie pushed deeper, teasing him open as he continued to work Jughead’s cock with his mouth.

Reggie was far better at this than he had any right to be, Jughead thought as he watched the head bobbing between his legs. And what was more, he genuinely seemed to be enjoying himself. Jughead leaned back and closed his eyes. He could already feel warmth building deep inside of him, threatening to spill over.

Reggie slipped another finger inside of him and Jughead groaned in spite of himself. The sensation was too much, and before Jughead knew it he was coming, hips twitching frantically. Reggie kept sucking him off, fucking him roughly with his fingers even as Jughead’s orgasm faded. He only stopped when the overstimulation made Jughead gasp and jerk away.  

Reggie withdrew and sat up, wiping his mouth. He smirked and leaned down for another kiss. It was messy and desperate, and Jughead could taste the salty sharpness of himself on Reggie’s tongue. His hands slid to Reggie’s swollen cock, eliciting a moan as he drew him closer.

Abruptly, Reggie broke away, breathing heavily. With a sigh he sat back on his heels and reached into his bedside table, fumbling for a condom.

Jughead looked away. He heard the crinkle of a wrapper, and the sound made his stomach churn—this part of the ritual was new to him, though he knew it shouldn’t be.

Reggie had insisted on protection since the first time they fucked properly, in his car in the parking lot behind Pop’s. Rationally, Jughead knew that was a good thing, but it seemed uncharacteristically conscientious, and he wondered if Reggie was as careful with the girls he slept with. Then again, Jughead wasn’t exactly a virginal cheerleader, so he couldn’t really blame Reggie for wanting to be on the safe side.

“What?” Reggie asked suspiciously at the expression on Jughead’s face.

“Nothing.”

“Whatever.” He wiped his hands on the sheets and parted Jughead’s legs, lining himself up. For a moment he hesitated, frowning, and brought a hand to Jughead's forehead. Jughead watched warily as Reggie carefully tucked a loose strand of hair back into his beanie.

"What?” Jughead asked.

“Nothing.”

Jughead felt his stomach flutter, but he didn’t know why. Reggie seemed to shake himself, and then the moment was over.

When Reggie pressed inside of him, Jughead bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He scrabbled for something to hold onto, settling on Reggie’s arms and gripping him hard. The pain was sharp—not enough lube, not enough preparation—but he didn’t bother pushing Reggie away. He didn’t mind the sting, or the ache, or the way that waves of heat prickled over him as Reggie slid in deeper, stretching him open.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Reggie said breathlessly.

“You watch too much porn,” Jughead managed from between gritted teeth. Reggie ignored him. He eased himself in and out, pushing further with every thrust until his cock was completely buried in Jughead’s ass.

The queasy pain began to fade as Reggie struck up a slow rhythm, replaced by a dull heat that sent electric shocks of pleasure radiating through him every time Reggie bottomed out. Jughead wrapped his legs around Reggie’s hips, pulling him closer.

The feeling of Reggie inside him was overwhelming. The sound of his breath, the smell of his body—it was like someone had turned the volume down on the rest of the world, and all Jughead wanted in that moment was to be opened and used and fucked into oblivion.

He swallowed a moan as Reggie hit a particularly good angle and stars burst before his eyes. “Fuck,” Jughead gasped.

Reggie shuddered and moved faster. His whole body was tense, and Jughead brought his hands to Reggie’s back, tracing his fingers over ribs and muscle and bone and damp, feverish skin. His eyes slid from the curve of Reggie’s shoulder to the ceiling above them. Dimly, he noted that here and there it was dotted with plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. Artefacts from an earlier era, perhaps.

Reggie’s rhythm was already growing more erratic, and when Jughead snuck a glance at his face he knew Reggie wouldn’t last much longer like this—eyes closed, eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Jughead’s dick rested on his belly, painfully hard and leaking precome into the coarse trail of hair below his bellybutton.

“Reg—” he choked out, and Reggie’s hand moved immediately to his neglected cock, stroking him in time with each thrust.

“Like this?” Reggie asked, and Jughead nodded wordlessly. The touch took the edge off of the dull ache inside him until all that remained was burning pleasure and the need for _more_.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Reggie adjusted Jughead’s hips in a way that drove his cock even deeper. Jughead’s breath hitched and he swore loudly; he hated how desperate his voice sounded, and he bit his tongue to hold back the pitiful sounds stuck in his throat.

“Fuck,” Reggie said, his own voice ragged. “Jughead, I’m gonna—”

Jughead groaned. “Not yet—almost there, Reg, please—” he gasped, voice breaking. But that was all it took: Reggie grunted and tensed, slamming into Jughead so hard his vision went white. His hand still gripped Jughead’s cock, but his movements were sporadic, and Jughead pushed him away, jerking himself as Reggie fucked him through the last waves of his orgasm. Under his own touch Jughead came quickly, shooting thick spurts of come onto his stomach as Reggie’s movements slowed.

Reggie collapsed onto his chest, panting, his breath hot in Jughead’s ear.

They lay like that for a minute before Reggie heaved himself up and pulled out slowly, holding the base of his cock to make sure the condom stayed in place. Jughead winced as he slid out—he felt raw and sore, and immediately regretted the lack of proper lubrication.

Reggie sat up and wiped the sweat off his brow with a satisfied sigh. “Want some food?”

Jughead’s head was spinning. “Sure,” he said.

“Cool.”

The bed creaked as Reggie stood up. Jughead stared at the ceiling, mind blank, counting the constellations of plastic stars above his head. Outside, the rain was still falling.

*

When he came back from the bathroom, Reggie was sitting on the floor in front of a tiny TV in the corner of his room with a controller in his hands. He was wearing boxers and a grey shirt that read _Property of Riverdale Athletic Dept.,_ and a selection of snack foods were spread out on the floor around him.

“Sup,” he said, eyes flicking to Jughead briefly in acknowledgement. “Where’d you go? All the expensive stuff has alarms on it, you know.”

“Ha ha,” Jughead said flatly. “I was in the bathroom.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Jughead sat down next to him.

“Halo?”

“Obviously.”

Jughead grabbed a bag of potato chips from the floor. He watched Reggie play for a while, enjoying how strangely _normal_ it all felt. It reminded him of being with Archie.

Out of nowhere a powerful wave of guilt washed over him. It took him by surprise, squeezing the air from his lungs. He blinked and shook his head, struggling to regain control, but Reggie didn’t seem to notice.

Things between Jughead and Archie hadn’t been great lately. First, there was the whole mess with their dads and the company and whatever had happened between them that had led to FP’s current downward spiral. Then there was, as Jughead referred to it in his mind, The Incident: that fateful night in November, when… well, when he had ruined what had probably been the best friendship he had ever had in his whole life.

He had been stupid to hope that there could ever be anything more between them. Archie was the boy next door—the athletic nice guy with a heart of gold—and, as FP always put it, “a real ladies’ man.” Really, he was the polar opposite of Jughead; they should have been enemies, not best friends. He should have kept his stupid feelings to himself. But the hurt from his mom’s decision to leave Riverdale was still fresh and aching when he snuck in through Archie’s window in the middle of the night because, well, where else was he supposed to go? And Archie had looked at him with such sincere tenderness that he’d thought maybe the idea wasn’t so far fetched after all.

But when Jughead leaned back and saw the look of panic and confusion in Archie’s eyes, his worst fears were confirmed.

Archie promised it wouldn’t change anything between them. He had promised he wouldn’t look at Jughead any differently. But he did, and Jughead resented him for it as much as he hated himself for daring to hope in the first place.

He glanced sidelong at Reggie, who now had a pretzel dangling from between his lips. Jughead used to think things would be easier for both of them if Archie were more like Reggie—like the rest of the football team. They didn’t waste time pretending to care about people like him.

He finished off the bag of chips and grabbed the box of cookies by Reggie’s knee.

“Wanna play?” Reggie asked without looking away from the screen. Jughead shrugged.

He didn’t know the game very well, but he soon found it wasn’t much different than the first-person shooters that Archie liked. As they played, Jughead started to relax. It was warm in Reggie’s room, and the sound of the rain over the faint noise from the TV was soothing. When he glanced back at the clock on Reggie’s bedside table, he was surprised to find it was almost midnight.

“Hey, so… you’re cool if I stay the night?” he ventured as casually as he could. Reggie raised an eyebrow.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Oh, motherfucker—” Jughead snickered as Reggie’s character perished in a spectacular explosion. “Whatever, I’m sick of this,” Reggie muttered, and threw away his controller.

“Wow Reg—you, a sore loser? Never would have guessed.”

“Shut up, Jones,” Reggie said, though there wasn’t much venom left in his voice. He yawned and leaned back against the side of his bed.

Jughead started a new one-player game.

“Your parents away for work or something?”

“Yeah, or something.”

“I’m surprised you’re not throwing a wild party. A low-key night in doesn’t exactly seem like you.”

Reggie shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Hmm? Reggie Mantle, not in the mood for partying? I don’t believe it.”

“You do know I’m more than an extra in a teen drama, right?”

Jughead gasped in mock horror. “You mean to tell me… this isn’t _Dawson’s Creek?_ My whole life is a lie…”

Reggie snorted.

“Seriously though,” Jughead went on, “that’s pretty rich coming from a guy who has bestowed upon me every single clichéd high-school-bullying torment under the sun. Including, I might add, an honest-to-god _swirly_. I mean, who even does that shit besides the bully in bad 80s movie?”

To his credit, Reggie looked a little sheepish.

“You’re right,” he said sadly. “I’m a hack. I’m capable of so much more creative forms of psychological torture.”

It was Jughead’s turn to laugh, and they soon lapsed into an easy silence. After a few minutes, Reggie cleared his throat.

“Listen… I don’t know what your… _situation_ is—” Jughead opened his mouth defensively, but Reggie held up a hand—“and I don’t _want_ to know. But if you need to use a phone or anything…”

“I don’t,” Jughead said quickly.

“I’m just saying.”

“Okay,” he said without looking at Reggie. “Thanks.”

“Mhmm.”

“Can I like… make it up to you, or something?”

“What?” Reggie asked.

“I don’t know... do you want money for the food?”

“Dude. No. We’re even.”

Jughead nodded gratefully. It was a relief to hear Reggie say it out loud.

“So,” he asked after a while, “how’d you find me earlier? Are you stalking me now?”

“You wish, _Twilight,”_ Reggie said. “I deadass thought you were roadkill. I was just minding my own business, driving home from practice, when I saw you and thought ‘damn, that looks like some fucking mess, and now I gotta clean it up.’ And what do you know? I was right.”

“How serendipitous,” Jughead said, raising an eyebrow.

Reggie scoffed. “Believe me, Merriam-Webster, this is _not_ how I thought I’d be spending my evening.”

“Okay, seriously… exactly how much time do you spend coming up with pet names for me, Reg?” Jughead asked. “Two hours a night? Three? Be honest.”

“Well, obviously not enough, ‘cause I don’t think I’ve made you cry once tonight. Except, you know, when I was balls deep in your ass, but that doesn’t count.”

Jughead choked on his cookie. “Wow, Reg, you always know just what to say,” he said between coughs. “That how you sweet talk the other girls, too, or am I just that special?”

Reggie laughed—a genuine laugh—and Jughead suppressed a smile. He shook his head and turned back to his game.

“It _was_ pretty random, though, finding you like that,” Reggie said with a frown. “I don’t usually take that exit. What were you doing out there, anyways?”

“I told you. Taking a walk.”

“All right, all right. Just trying to be nice.”

“Doesn’t matter, anyways,” Jughead said with a shrug. “It all worked out, right? I’m dry, which is nice, and you got what you wanted.” He meant it as a joke—kind of—but it came out a little more bitter than he had intended. Reggie frowned.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, trying for his usual aloof tone and missing, “we _both_ got what we wanted. Like you said, we’re even.”

Jughead could hear the gears turning in Reggie’s brain. _“_ Wait, what?” he said indignantly. “Dude. That’s not what I—You think that’s the reason I picked you up? Because I wanted to you to owe me sex, or something?”

Jughead felt a flush creeping up his neck. “I’m not, like… _mad_ about it. Like I said, I get it. I’m just saying—”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Reggie countered quickly. “I’ve _never_ made you do anything. I wouldn’t have cared if you didn’t want to —”

Jughead shot him a withering look, and Reggie’s mouth snapped closed.

“I’m not an idiot, Reg. I know how this goes.”

“How _what_ goes?” Reggie’s voice was dangerous.

“Please. You may be a Neanderthal, but even you’re not that stupid.” Jughead turned back to the screen to find that Master Chief had been taken out by a sniper. He restarted the level and tried to focus on the game, but his mind was filled with white noise and his face was hot. He could feel Reggie’s eyes on him.

“What, do you think I’m some kind of predator or something?” Reggie asked loudly. “Taking advantage of you? Manipulating you?”

“You’re not smart enough to manipulate me,” Jughead snapped.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Reggie leaned over and yanked the controller out of Jughead’s hand. “You’re on my turf now, and I’m not gonna put up with this high school melodrama song-and-dance.”

Jughead glared down at his empty hands. His ears were ringing. On screen, he watched as Master Chief was passively mauled by a horde of aliens. When Reggie spoke next, his voice was strained.

“You think you’ve got all the answers, huh?” he said bitterly. “Well, good for you Ghandi. I’m glad you’re so enlightened, ‘cause I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

Jughead felt vaguely ill. He turned to Reggie, who looked… small. Slumped against the bed, hugging his knees to his chest and glaring at the floor. Through his anger, Jughead felt a momentary swell of pity. He swallowed it down and looked away.

“What, am I supposed to feel sorry for you now or something?” he asked. “ _Poor closet-case Reggie,_ sticks his dick in another boy and the world falls apart…”

“Fuck you,” Reggie spat. He stood up and stalked to the other side of the room, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Whatever,” Jughead said. “I’m done with this.” He put down the controller and began pulling on his shoes. Reggie wheeled on him.

“Do you think I’m like… incapable of doing nice things, or something? You really think I’m that much of an asshole?”

“Based on every single piece of evidence available to me? Yeah, I do,” Jughead said, his voice rising. At the look of fury on Reggie’s face, he felt a grim satisfaction; whatever he was doing right now, he knew he couldn’t take it back. He stood, shrugged on his jacket, and hoisted his pack onto his shoulder.

“Maybe you’re the asshole, ever think of that?”

“Oh man, nice one,” Jughead sneered. “I’m not the one who pushes people around—who shits on everyone who doesn’t fit into their cookie-cutter dudebro mold.” Reggie opened his mouth, but Jughead kept going. “You’ve treated me like shit since kindergarten, that’s not a new concept, so if you want to keep treating me like shit even after you fuck me, _fine_ , but don’t pretend you’re some tragic, nuanced nice guy just because you getting your dick wet happens to coincide with me not being homeless for a night.”

Reggie looked as if he might punch him, and Jughead almost wanted him to. His chest was tight and his hands tingled with adrenaline and anger. They stood that way for a minute before Jughead shook his head and made for the door.

“Thanks for the food,” he said as he brushed past Reggie and into the hallway. He didn’t look back, simply let his feet carry him back through the dark, empty house and out the front door.

Part of him was expecting Reggie to come after him. He even ran through a list of things he would say and do when Reggie chased him down—the insults, the comebacks, the carefully crafted expressions of disdain. But he never had to use them.

The night was bitterly cold, and Jughead walked without thinking too much about where he was going. The rain had mostly stopped, but a thick mist hung in the air, and it wasn’t long before he was soaked through and shivering. It wasn’t long, either, before his self-righteous anger faded, dulled into a hollow, aching regret.

Why did he always do this? He hated being on the outside, but everything he did only cemented his place there. There was something wrong with him. The sidewalk swam before his eyes as he tried to blink back his tears, and he fought the urge to look over his shoulder. He had fucked everything up, just like he always did, and now no one was coming for him—least of all Reggie.

_No one was coming for him._

He repeated the words over to himself until the tears dried and the knot in his chest settled into something bearable; something a little less raw. This was just the way things were for Jughead Jones—there was no use crying about it.

When he looked up, he found himself in a familiar neighbourhood somewhere in the middle of town. Nice, but not too nice. Well-manicured lawns alongside driveways cluttered with broken appliances and rusting pickups. Middle class and working class, straddling the border between North and South.

He stopped in front of a house with peeling paint. In the window, he could see the blue flicker of a television. It was a while before he could bring himself to knock on the door.

“Well, would you look what the cat dragged in,” said the man who answered. He was middle aged, with long grey hair tied back in a pony tail and arms covered in tattoos. Jughead’s shivered, hugging his arms around himself for some kind of protection.

“Are you busy?”

The man raised an eyebrow, taking in his dishevelled appearance. “It’s almost one in the morning,” he pointed out, but he didn’t sound angry.

Jughead looked at the ground. “I need somewhere to crash for a few days.”

“You alone?” The man’s eyes flicked suspiciously to the street.

“What do you think?”

The man chuckled and shrugged. “Well in that case, _mi casa, su casa_.” He smiled warmly and stood aside, ushering Jughead inside with a wave of his hand.

*

When Archie saw Jughead at school the next morning, his face fell almost immediately.  

“What happened? Is everything okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“Late night,” Jughead said. He hadn’t looked in the mirror at all, but he guessed he probably did look like literal roadkill by now. _“Deadass,”_ he muttered to himself, and Archie frowned.

“What?”

Jughead shook his head. His brain felt slow and foggy and his mouth tasted like an ashtray.

“Got any gum?”

“Gum? No, but Kevin might, or—oh, hey Betty.”

“Hey,” Betty said as she came to join them, flashing Archie a sunny smile. “Hey, Jug.”

Jughead felt like some crawly thing whose rock had been turned over; Archie’s concern and Betty’s warmth were like sunlight, but instead of comforting him, they only made him feel more disgusting.

“Hey,” he said tightly.

“How was practice yesterday?” Betty asked Archie.

“Fine, I guess. Coach Clayton made us do this weird circuit from like, Iceland or something. My shoulder’s killing me…”

Jughead watched them out of the corner of his eye. Betty’s attention was focused only on Archie; Jughead may as well have been a ghost. Maybe he should feel bitter about that, but he didn’t really mind. Why should Betty care about him, anyways? They had always been friends in a distant, cordial kind of way, but only because their mutual love of Archie Andrews frequently put them in such close proximity. He didn’t know much about her besides what everyone else did—she was beautiful and smart and fierce, and she was probably going to rule the world some day. He didn’t expect anything more from Betty Cooper than a polite greeting or a sympathetic frown.

No, more than Betty’s indifference, what really hurt was how easy it was for Archie to retreat back to his perfect high school world, filled with simple concerns like football and girls and whether he had scraped a pass on his latest math test. Jughead didn’t have that luxury.

He was still fishing for his books in his locker when the first bell rang.

“Shoot, I have a Spanish test,” Betty said. “See you at lunch?”

“For sure,” Archie said. As soon as they were alone, Jughead felt Archie’s eyes turn on him like a searchlight. He had found the book he was looking for, but he kept rummaging anyways just for something to do with his hands.

“Listen, Jug—” Archie started, but Jughead cut him off.

“You’re gonna be late. Go—I’ll catch up.”

Archie stared at him, and Jughead wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“Okay,” Archie said reluctantly. “See you later.”

Jughead barely had enough time to let out a shaky breath before he heard shouting and familiar laughter heading towards him down the hall.

“What up, freak?” Chuck Clayton called out as his crew—Moose, Reggie, a few other miscellaneous goons—drew nearer. They walked in loose formation, strutting through the school like a pack of coyotes. Jughead hastened to gather his things and replace the lock on his locker.  

“Hey freak, I asked you a question,” Chuck shouted at him. “What, no witty comebacks today?”

As they passed him, Reggie leaned out so that his shoulder connected with Jughead’s back.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Reggie said loudly, and shoved Jughead so hard that his face collided with the metal door of his locker and he fell to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, trying not to attract any more attention to himself than he already had. Blood was pouring from his nose, and for a moment he and Reggie locked eyes.

Reggie's face was unreadable. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Jughead watched his expression harden into something cold and distant and familiar, and then he was gone.

The second bell rang.

Slowly, Jughead bent down, picked up his books, and went to class.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're back.
> 
> Thank you so much for the positive feedback on chapter one! I'm glad other people love these dumb boys as much as I do. :') All your lovely comments really motivated me to keep going with this, even though I know it's been a bit of a break since I posted the first chapter. The last three parts are already written and mostly edited - I'll be posting them over the next week or so.
> 
> As always, please leave a comment to let me know what you think!

Jughead fucking Jones.

Who named their kid that? Or, better question, who _nicknamed_ their kid that?

The image of Jughead standing in the hallway burned brightly in Reggie’s mind. Jughead, thin and tired with blood dribbling down his chin and a look in his eye that wasn’t quite hatred, just a grim kind of defeat. Or resignation, maybe.

Reggie hated it. He hated the pit that opened in his stomach when he thought about it.

“What do you think, Reg?”

Reggie blinked and looked up.

“Huh?”

Polly Cooper was staring at him expectantly from across the picnic table. She was sitting in Jason Blossom’s lap with her arm wrapped around his shoulders. Moose was beside them, plowing his way through a massive plate of mystery meat lasagna from the cafeteria.

“For the Spring Fling theme,” Polly said impatiently. “Retro or futuristic?”

“Or retro futuristic,” Moose said around a mouthful of food.

“Yeah, that one,” Reggie said.  

Polly rolled her eyes. “You know you’re helping decorate, right? _All_ of you.”

Moose made a face at her and she hit him lightly on the shoulder. On Reggie’s left, Chuck nudged him in the side. “What’s up with you today, man?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Reggie took a bite of his ham sandwich and stared absently across the field. The grass was still wet with morning dew and the sun was poking through the clouds. It was March, but there was a chill in the air that reminded him of autumn.

“Alright, whatever,” Chuck said. “That time of the month, I guess.”

“Mm,” Reggie replied. He hadn’t heard anything Chuck had said, because Jughead Jones had just appeared by a tree across the field. Reggie watched with his heart in his throat as Jughead glanced around, sat down, opened up his laptop, and began to type.

“Okay, now I _know_ something’s up,” said Chuck.

Reggie snapped back to his senses with a jolt. “Dude, it’s fine. This isn’t _Sex and the City,_ stop asking me about my feefees before I spontaneously grow a vagina.”

Chuck snorted and Reggie looked back to the tree. Jughead was still typing, hunched over his computer like a spindly Tim Burton character. Reggie took a moment to hate him, focusing all his energy like a laser into Jughead’s skull. It felt good.

“Oh shit, the ice bitch cometh,” Chuck murmured, and elbowed Reggie in the ribs.

The table quieted as Cheryl Blossom approached, wrapped in a silky red dress and sporting one of her many signature faux-fur coats.

“Hello boys,” she said tersely, gazing around at them with a cold crimson smile. “Pollykins.”

“Cheryl,” Chuck said with a nod.

“Hi Cheryl,” Polly said, her tone aggressively pleasant.

“How’s the Spring Fling coming along?” Cheryl asked.

“Fine, thanks,” said Polly.

“Super,” Cheryl said. Her smile widened. “Can’t wait.”

“Super,” said Polly.

Chuck glanced at Reggie out of the corner of his eye, and Reggie bit his tongue to keep from laughing.

“Mind if I steal my brother, just for one teensy second?” Cheryl asked. Reggie saw Chuck cough into his hand, hiding a grin.

“Of course not,” Polly said, her voice sickeningly sweet.

“Super,” Cheryl said again. “Jay-Jay?”

Jason wrapped his arms around Polly’s waist and stood up, lifting her into the air. Her shriek turned to laughter as he set her back on her feet, spun her around, and pulled her in for a kiss.

Cheryl’s expression had slipped from frosty politeness to thinly-veiled loathing, and her pasted-on smile now looked more like a snarl. Reggie clapped a hand over his mouth and tried not to look at Chuck, who was shaking with silent laughter.

With one last hate-filled glare, Cheryl turned to leave. Jason trailed close on her heels.

“Oh my god,” Chuck cackled as soon as they were out of earshot. “What did you _do_ to her?”

“Besides bumping uglies with her dearly-beloved brother,” Reggie added with a smirk. Polly looked mildly offended, but he could see a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I _may_ have accidentally peeked at her closet the last time I visited Thornhill… and I _may_ have— _accidentally_ —bought the same dress that she was planning to wear to the Spring Fling. I posted a picture of it last night.”

“Holy shit,” Chuck laughed.

“Get rekt Cersei,” Reggie snickered.

Polly tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, looking smug. “Anyways,” she said, “I’ve got to run—yearbook meeting after lunch. See you!” She stood and grabbed her book bag, departing with a cheerful smile and a wave.

“So I was thinking about coach’s plays for tonight,” Chuck said.

“Oh yeah,” said Moose. “I was gonna ask about number five…”

Reggie tuned in and out of the conversation, only half listening as they discussed formations, weak points, and weather forecasts. He tried to resist the urge to look over at Jughead—he could still see him in his periphery vision, a dark blur in the bright emerald grass. And then he gave up trying not to look, because Archie Andrews was strutting purposefully across the field.

Archie stopped just in front of Jughead. He looked sheepish for a moment, ruffling the back of his hair, but then he said something that made Jughead smile. Reggie felt a muscle in his chest spasm.

Jughead shifted over as Archie sat down on the grass next to him, adjusting himself so that their bodies were angled toward each other. Reggie took a moment to reflect on how much he hated Archie. He hated how close they were sitting.

Jughead said something and Archie threw back his head, laughing so hard his whole body shook. It was difficult to see Jughead’s exact expression from this far away, but Reggie thought he looked pleased with himself, and it made him furious.

Jughead didn’t deserve to feel pleased with himself about anything.

Reggie watched as he closed his laptop and leaned back against the tree. He looked easy and relaxed—almost happy—sitting next to Archie. If Jughead hadn’t been dressed like he was on his way to an emo death metal concert, it would have been a perfect picture, worthy of any respectable secondary school brochure.

“Yo, Reg, did you hear what I said?”

Reggie tore his eyes away from the scene under the tree. Chuck was staring at him.

“I said, we’re going to the EasyMart real quick before class. Coming?”

“Nah.”

“All right, whatever.”

Moose and Chuck left, and Reggie started munching his carrot sticks moodily. Archie and Jughead were talking about something, and he wondered what it was. Homework? Archie’s never-ending girl troubles? Jughead’s deadbeat alcoholic dad?

He didn’t know where the urge came from, but suddenly he was overwhelmed with the need to _do_ something. Jughead was too comfortable—he needed to be reminded that Reggie was there, watching, and he wasn’t going to let Jughead off that easy. The kid needed to be taken down a peg.

Before he knew it, Reggie was up and striding across the field towards them. Jughead noticed him almost immediately and stiffened, like he was readying himself for a fight.

Reggie could’ve sworn he had the perfect thing to say—the perfect zinger—but the closer he got, the louder the static hum in his ears got, until he was standing in front of Archie and Jughead with a furious scowl and absolutely no clue what to say. Jughead was tense, eyes wide, regarding him with bewildered horror.

“Hey Reggie,” Archie said slowly.

Reggie ignored him. He couldn’t stop staring at Jughead. He wanted to beat his stupid face in. But then, at the same time, he wanted other things, too…

His thoughts must have shown on his face more clearly than he meant them to, because Jughead’s eyes widened even further and he shook his head an almost imperceptible amount.

Shit. What was he doing? Words. He needed to say words.

“Teddy bear picnic,” Reggie blurted out.

“What?” asked Archie.

“You look stupid,” Reggie clarified. Jughead was gaping at him, so he turned to Archie instead. “Game on Friday,” he said. Archie’s eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Good,” Reggie huffed. “So don’t… don’t fuck it up, Andrews.”

“Okay…”

They were both staring at him. Why had he come over here?

Reggie noticed a can of soda sitting in the grass by Jughead’s knee. Without thinking, he wound back his leg and punted it as hard as he could into the bushes beyond the field. It twirled as it flew through the air, and Jughead flinched as a few drops splashed him in the face.

“What the hell, man?” Archie snapped.

“Nice one,” said Jughead.

“See you at practice, Andrews,” Reggie shouted over his shoulder as he stalked back toward the school.

“You’re a real charmer, Mantle,” Jughead called after him.

Reggie stuck out his hand and flipped them the bird.

*

The whole rest of the day, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jughead. How much he hated him, how stupid his hat was, how his clothes looked like something he’d dug out of the bargain bin at Value Village. He thought about how tired Jughead always looked, and the tight, wary way he squared his shoulders when he thought other people were looking at him. And when he _didn’t_ think anyone was looking, the way his face opened just a little bit; the way the corners of his mouth relaxed and his eyebrows unknotted themselves. It was the same way he’d looked when they’d been sitting on the floor of Reggie’s room—when the jokes that usually made Jughead scowl had actually made him laugh instead.

They didn’t even have any classes together that afternoon, which almost made it worse, because during every break Reggie was both terrified and hopeful that he would see Jughead skulking around the halls. But besides the slouching shadow he caught once or twice out of the corner of his eye, Jughead avoided him like the plague.

Jughead fucking Jones. Who did he think he was? Reggie had done something nice—invited the kid into his home, held out an olive branch, so to speak—and Jughead had thrown that kindness back in his face like it meant nothing. Jughead, with his weary eyes and smartass comments that sometimes cut deeper than Reggie cared to admit.

For all of two seconds it had actually been, well… _nice._ Easy. If Jughead wasn’t such a gothic weirdo, Reggie might even say they had a kind of chemistry. Albeit, usually an antagonistic kind. Jughead was the Joker to Reggie’s Batman. But when they had been sitting on the floor of his room, eating junk food and playing video games and talking, he had felt a different kind of spark. It was there and gone so quickly that he had almost managed to convince himself he'd imagined it.

Of course he had. He could still see the look of pure loathing on Jughead’s face just before he’d stormed out of Reggie’s bedroom.

By the time the final bell rang, Reggie felt miserable. The anger that had buoyed him through most of the day had turned into something else; something that felt suspiciously like guilt.

He took a detour past Jughead’s locker on his way to practice, but the kid was nowhere to be found. That was probably a good thing, he told himself, though the ache in his chest throbbed pointedly as he made his way out to the field.

Exercise helped take his mind off it, at least. He threw himself into Coach Clayton’s drills, and by the time the team trudged back to the locker room he was so tired he could barely move.

As everyone else changed and packed up their stuff, Reggie hung back, just in case. He told himself he was just tired and moving more slowly than normal, but he kept glancing at the doorway, hoping that suddenly it would be filled by a familiar shadow.

Reggie’s parents weren’t due back until the weekend and he didn’t really feel like going home, so he put on a playlist he liked—something called “Rainy Nights,” which felt fitting—and started to drive to nowhere in particular. The music was soft and mellow, and it kind of made him sad, but in a good way—like he was the main character in a classic coming-of-age story. Right now he was at the part where everything felt like shit, but soon the penny would drop and it would all make sense again.  

Eventually, he found himself in the parking lot of Pop’s. He sat there for a long time before he finally worked up the nerve to get out of his car.

Inside, the diner was soft and warm and neon; it smelled like frying food and coffee, and some musty vintage lounge singer was crooning over the jukebox. In spite of himself, Reggie’s eyes slid automatically to Jughead’s favourite booth.

Empty.

He ordered a burger and a shake, and was just about to take his food to go when he noticed Kevin Keller sitting at the back of the restaurant, nose buried in what could only be an irritatingly advanced volume of literature. As immersed in his novel as he was, Kevin didn’t notice Reggie approaching until he set his food on the table and slid into the seat across from him.

“Can I help you?” he asked, staring at Reggie like he had two heads.

“Calm down, _Will and Grace,_ ” Reggie said as he unwrapped his burger.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure it does,” Reggie said.

“Because it’s a show about gay people?”

“Grace isn’t gay,” Reggie pointed out.

“That’s why it doesn’t make sense. If there was someone else here, okay, _maybe._ But just me?”

“Fine, what should I call you then?”

“How about _Kevin_?” Kevin shot back.

“Nah, doesn’t capture your sparkling personality.”

Kevin’s expression was icy. He turned back to his book, and Reggie sighed into his burger.

“Why are you here, anyways?” Kevin muttered, glancing up at him warily.

Reggie shrugged. “I’ve known you since preschool, Keller. Can’t a guy sit and eat a burger with his friend?”

_“’Friend,’”_ Kevin echoed. “I don’t think you’ve said two words to me all year.”

Reggie couldn’t dispute that, so he just shrugged again and took a sip of his chocolate shake.

Kevin closed his book with a world-weary sigh. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is there something you want to ask me, Reggie?” he asked, his words dripping with exaggerated sympathy.

“What? No,” Reggie said quickly. _Too_ quickly. Kevin raised an eyebrow.

“Sure about that? No ‘did you always know,’ or ‘how do I tell if I,’ or ‘will you let me suck your dick—no homo?’”

Reggie tried to arrange his face into something that conveyed indignation and not terror. Evidently he failed, because Kevin’s expression turned smug.

“I thought so,” he said. “Believe me, Reggie, you wouldn’t be the first.” Kevin resumed reading while Reggie fumed silently. It was hard to hold the anger for very long, though; after a few seconds his shoulders drooped and he tossed his burger away from him glumly. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

Kevin glanced at him, then sighed. “Look, I don’t particularly care about whatever identity crisis you may or may not be having. But it would be nice if you didn’t take out this newfound self-loathing on me. Or anyone else,” he added as an afterthought.

“I don’t do that,” Reggie said automatically.

“ _Sure._ So you’re not the reason Jughead Jones came to first period English with a bloody nose?”

Reggie’s stomach gave a feeble lurch. “Oh come on, Keller,” he said, trying to mask the guilt in his voice. “We both know that kid was asking for it.”

“Fascinating. It is utterly fascinating how self-unaware you consistently manage to be.”

“Hey—fuck you. Why does everyone think I’m some… some massive asshole?”

Kevin levelled a cold stare at him. “Maybe because you act like a massive asshole all the time.”

“Well, _excuse_ me for trying to catch up with a childhood pal,” Reggie huffed. He slid out of the booth as angrily as he could—which was not very—and didn't bother to take the rest of his food with him.

“I’m not your pal,” Kevin called after him as he stormed out of the diner.

*

Back in his car, Reggie put on the Rainy Nights playlist again and started to drive.

It wasn’t that he had anything against gay people. It was the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. Gay people were cool—Reggie liked gay people. (Okay, Keller was kind of annoying sometimes, and he hadn’t really met any other gay people, but he was pretty sure he would like the other ones if he did.)

Reggie adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. The rain was picking up, battering the windshield so hard the wipers could barely handle it. On a whim, he took the turn-off that led to the old river highway. The road was bumpy and rundown compared to the newer one, but it offered better scenery, winding through thick trees that occasionally broke apart to reveal Sweetwater River below. As the woods started to grow denser, Reggie relaxed a little bit. He turned up the music, trying to drown out the pounding of the rain; trying not to think about the smug look on Keller’s face.

Reggie still remembered the day in sixth grade that Keller had finally come out of the closet. He’d managed to keep any gossip about his sexuality out of the school’s collective consciousness for pretty long time, considering, but at some point he must have said _something_ to _someone_ and the rumour mill had started churning. Rather than deny or deflect, Keller had chosen to address the situation head on. So, after one very memorable speech from atop a cafeteria table in the middle of lunch hour, Riverdale Junior High officially had its first gay student.

That made some people at school uncomfortable. The hallways buzzed with speculation, and the boys’ locker room was awkward and quiet that first PE class after Keller’s announcement.

It didn’t take long for him to snap: “Can you all please relax?” Keller had said, his face bright red. “I didn’t become a sexual predator overnight, and ‘homophobic jock’ isn’t exactly my type, so none of _you_ have to worry.”   

That broke the tension—nervous laughter turned into regular laughter, and it hadn’t really been an issue after that. For his part, Keller did pretty well for himself: he hadn’t exactly been popular before, but suddenly there were legions of girls practically foaming at the mouth to get their hands on him for _makeovers_ and _girl talk_. Reggie had found that kind of funny, and said as much one night over dinner. He still remembered the look on his dad’s face.

“And the school is okay with this?” he’d barked. “The administration? They shouldn’t be encouraging that kind of nonsense. Not around impressionable kids. It’s downright irresponsible.”

Reggie’s mom had pursed her lips and said nothing while his dad drained his glass of scotch, muttering about _common decency_ and _taking a hard stance._ Reggie still remembered the confused dismay he’d felt as a kid, staring down at his mashed potatoes and wondering what exactly he’d done to make his dad so angry.

On Reggie’s right, the trees opened up. It was twilight now, and darker than usual because of the rain clouds, but he could still make out the twisting black water and the distant, jagged shape of the mountains on the far shore. In the summer he came out this way all the time to hike or swim or get shitfaced at various pop-up bonfires. Now, though, it felt completely wild; he was less than fifteen minutes from town, but he may as well have been in the middle of nowhere.

Reggie tried to imagine his parents’ faces if he told them he was like Keller. His dad would probably yell, or cry, or start talking about how he’d failed as a father—how they hadn’t played catch enough when Reggie was a kid or something stupid like that. His mom would probably just be quiet and sad, because, out of all the futures she’d imagined for him, Reggie knew _that_ wasn’t one of them. Then again, it wasn’t what he’d imagined for himself, either.

When he thought about the future—going to university, getting a real job, getting married, buying a house—he always pictured himself with a girl. Someone pretty, even though in his imagination her face was just a featureless blob. She loved to hike and camp and laughed at all his jokes. She was a doctor, or a DJ, or a mountain climbing instructor—something cool that his parents would approve of. He didn’t know when he’d started imagining this woman; it felt like she’d always been there. And if he was—well, if he _was_ like Keller… What did the future look like then? He tried to imagine it—tried to turn the woman into a man—but it didn’t work. The vision only became a wide, yawning void of uncertainty.

The road curved, and the trees ahead of him parted to reveal a dark, looming shadow: the old Sweetwater Bridge, another one of those relics from the past. Reggie liked taking girls out this way because they always made cute little squeals and clung to his arm when he drove them across the rickety wooden structure. He’d done it a million times, but even now he felt a small thrill of adrenaline as his tires rumbled over the ancient boards.

Maybe he didn’t like _guys_ that way, as a group; maybe it was just Jughead. Stupid fucking Jughead and his pouty lips and his pretty face. Reggie had kissed a few girls (well, more than a few) and he had even gotten to third base a couple of times. And that had been fine, really, but… Jughead was different.

Up ahead, Reggie could see the headlights of other cars through the trees. He had done a kind of roundabout loop, and after a few more minutes of driving he merged back onto the highway heading into town. And even though he told himself not to—told himself to just keep driving—he couldn’t help taking the same exit as he had the night before. He rationalized that this was faster (arguable), but as he got closer, he felt his pulse quicken. There was the overpass, the same as it always was—old, grey, and deserted.

He hated how the sight of the empty concrete made his stomach drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need some music to introspect to? Find Reggie's playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/esonyac/playlist/2yDKBaTnpriMfqcKhVKM3d).


	3. Chapter 3

Reggie didn’t see Jughead at all the next day, or the day after. He figured the kid was just avoiding him, which made him equal parts smug and furious, until he overheard Archie Andrews talking to Betty Cooper in English class.

“Have you seen Jug around?” Archie asked her in a low whisper. She shook her head, and Reggie watched her perfectly-coiled ponytail bob up and down like a spring. He was sitting behind them, doodling in his notebook. They were supposed to be analyzing yet another poem by Old Dead White Dude of the Week, but that was boring (and mostly bullshit anyways).

“He hasn’t been at school since Tuesday,” Archie sighed.

“Has he texted you?”

“No—he ran out of minutes.”

Reggie scoffed quietly to himself. How typical. Kid couldn’t even have a normal fucking phone.

 _“Minutes?”_  Betty asked, echoing Reggie’s thoughts. “Where did he even  _get_  a phone with minutes?”

“I have no idea,” Archie said. “He said he’d come to the game tonight though.”

“Well, it’s not like this is the first time, right?” Betty ventured. “Plus he has Bio this morning—you know how much he hates Bio. Maybe he’ll show up next period.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Archie said. “I guess I’m just worried. Things with his dad aren’t so—”

But Reggie didn’t get to hear what things with Jughead’s dad were, because Archie was cut off by the bell.

*

The annual spring exhibition game against Pembrooke Academy was a Riverdale tradition. Reggie had never been to the place—it was a fancy boarding school hidden away in the nearby mountains—but he imagined it was like Hogwarts, only with no magic and populated by rich assholes who thought they were better than everyone else.

Reggie was pretty proud of the fact he’d made the exhibition team this year: Coach Clayton hand-picked all the players, and being in the regular school lineup was no guarantee you’d get a spot. The outcome of the match wouldn’t have any impact on the upcoming season—Pembrooke didn’t play in the regular high school leagues anyways—but beating those snobby private school kids was a matter of Bulldog pride, and the whole school always came out to cheer them on. And, if Archie was to be believed, that even included Jughead Jones.

Reggie had never noticed Jughead at a football game before. It was hard to even imagine him there, sitting on the bleachers sandwiched between students and teachers and wine moms dressed in bright blue and gold. It just didn’t fit, and there was absolutely no way he actually expected Jughead to show that night.

So it was something of a surprise when they ran out onto the field and there he was, slouched against the bleachers with his hands in his pockets. But perhaps even more shocking than his mere presence was the expression on his face: he was looking straight at Reggie and he was  _smiling._  Not even a smirk, but a proper smile, the kind that a normal person with a normal face and normal emotions might be capable of. It caught Reggie off guard, and he stumbled, causing Archie Andrews to run into his back with a grunt.

Reggie barely had time to register the look of alarm on Jughead’s face before Archie pushed him forward and back into line.

If Reggie had been a lesser player, Jughead’s presence might have distracted him. But he wasn’t, and soon the Bulldogs were up by a wide margin and on track for a historic victory. Every now and then as they played, Reggie would look back over his shoulder and his eyes would instantly slide to the dark, sullen shadow that was Jughead Jones. His heart did a weird jumpy thing each time, but instead of messing him up, the tiny burst of adrenaline just made him push harder.

By halftime, Reggie was feeling pretty good. They team was working well together, pulling off Coach Clayton’s plays with ease, and he was even feeling charitable towards Archie. When the ref blew the whistle, Reggie flashed him a wide smile. Archie returned it uncertainly, then turned and made a beeline for the bleachers.

Jughead’s face lit up when he saw Archie coming. Well, not exactly  _lit up_ —his scowl just kind of relaxed a little bit into something slightly less reminiscent of a Halloween mask. It was a familiar exchange: Archie said something, Jughead laughed, and Reggie did his best not to overturn the nearby water table.

But more than making him angry, it kind of just made him sad. And anxious. And then Archie left and before Reggie could stop himself he was striding toward the bleachers. He took a roundabout route, wending through the crowd and the cheerleaders trying to keep warm in the misty night air.

Jughead braced himself as Reggie came to stand beside him, but kept his eyes on the field. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, barely moving his lips.  

Reggie knew the game. He leaned against the bleachers and took a swig of his water bottle, glancing around to make sure no one who mattered was watching. He didn’t look at Jughead when he spoke.

“Meet me after the game.”

 _"Why?”_  Jughead asked, twisting his mouth around the word like it tasted bad.

“Because I want to talk to you,” Reggie said through clenched teeth.

“Again, why—?”

“Just—meet me, okay? You know where.”

“As tempting as that offer is, Mantle, I’m going to have to decline. I have plans.”

Reggie scoffed quietly. “What, you got a date with your hand?”

“Original,” Jughead said.

“Whatever. I’m not going to say it again.”

He turned and headed back to the field without a backward glance.

*

They won 24 to 16, and walked off the field to the deafening roar of the crowd.

In the locker room, Reggie showered and took his time getting dressed. Chuck immediately invited the team to a party at his place, but Reggie stayed behind as everyone else started trickling out one by one. He took as long as he possibly could to comb his hair, fold his clothes and place them carefully in his bag.

“You coming?” Chuck asked. “Or do you still have to do your makeup?”

Reggie laughed along with the rest of the guys.

“I’ll meet you there,” he said, ignoring the way Chuck’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. They didn’t give him anymore shit for it, though, and before long he was alone with only his thoughts for company. The crowd outside must have gone home already, too, because the silence in the locker room was complete. Or it would have been if it weren’t for Reggie’s own pounding heartbeat in his ears.

He unpacked his bag, then repacked it. His hands felt jittery, and he held one in front of his face, mentally cursing it for betraying him.  

After ten minutes, Reggie was beginning to lose hope.

It wasn’t like he’d actually expected the kid to show up—not after what had happened the last time they’d been alone together—but it still made him feel like shit.

After twenty minutes, he packed up his things for real and trudged out the door, his shoulders bowed. He was so wrapped up in feeling sorry for himself that he almost didn’t notice the lanky figure slouched by the door.

Reggie did a double take. Jughead was staring at the sky, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, and the rush of relief Reggie felt was quickly overtaken by sheer annoyance.

“Who the fuck you think you are, Jones? Knockoff James Dean?”

Jughead blew a thin line of smoke into the air. It looked bright white in the dark, backlit by the distant lights of the football field.

“This isn’t a good idea, Reg,” he sighed.

Reggie found that comment unhelpful, so he ignored it. “Why didn’t you come inside?” he demanded.

“I don’t know.” Jughead flicked his cigarette into the grass and crushed it with his heel. “I was nervous, I guess.”

“Nervous,” Reggie said flatly.

“Yeah, it’s an emotion people feel sometimes when they’re not sure if they’re going to be assaulted or not.”

Reggie rolled his eyes. “You’re such a fucking drama queen. I just wanted…” The words stuck in his throat, and he faltered. “I wanted to talk to you. To… to say sorry.”

“For what?" Jughead asked blithely. "Last time I checked, I was the one who insulted you and stormed out of your house. I mean, you  _did_  give me a bloody nose, but that got me out of English with Mr. Taylor, so I should actually be thanking you.”

His voice was emotionless, and Reggie hated it. He would rather have insults or anger than… detachment.  

“Yeah, well…” Reggie took a long, steady breath. “You were right,” he said. Jughead’s eyebrows shot up, and, truthfully, the words were a surprise to Reggie too. But the knot in his chest felt miraculously lighter, and the relief was intoxicating. “You were right. I… I treated you like shit. So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was an asshole.  _Am_  an asshole, sometimes. I’m sorry about your nose, and I’m sorry about the other night. I don’t really know what went wrong…? It was fine one minute, right? It was fine. And then I freaked out, and you freaked out, and…  I just… I just get scared sometimes, okay?”

“How special for you,” Jughead said. “What could you possibly be scared of, Reggie? Missing leg day at the gym? Using too much Dapper Dan? Some of us have real problems.”

Reggie laughed incredulously, spreading his hands wide. “Wow, there’s no winning with you, is there? I’m not trying to beat you in the Sad Life Olympics, all right?”

“Okay,” Jughead said blankly. “Is that all?”

“Yeah, it is. You got anything to say to me?”

“No,” Jughead said. “Just what I already said—this is a bad idea.”

“Are you serious? That’s it?”

Jughead snorted. “What do you want me to say, Reg? That I can’t survive without your magic dick? That I’ve seen the light and you’re more than just a pretty face with an ego the size of Manhattan? That secretly my bad attitude is just a front for the fact that I’m  _falling in love_  with you?” The words were dripping with sarcasm.

Reggie’s stomach sunk. What  _had_  he expected? Not love—definitely not that. But maybe some acknowledgement of what they had. That they actually had something in the first place. He knew it wasn’t just in his head.

“You… you looked at me,” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to say “smiled.”

The statement caught Jughead off guard.

“I  _what?”_

“Before the game, when we ran out onto the field. You  _looked_  at me, like…” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know. Like you didn’t hate my guts, I guess.”

Reggie saw comprehension dawn on Jughead’s face. He pressed his mouth into a tight line and looked down at his feet.

“I wasn’t looking at  _you_ , idiot,” he muttered, and suddenly the missing piece fell into place.

_Archie fucking Andrews._

“Oh,” Reggie said.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’”

The night air felt heavy. Across the field, fog was already beginning to settle into pillowy blankets of white.

“This…  _thing_ … is over, okay?” Jughead said with an awful finality. “This is it. Understand?”

Reggie nodded once, a quick, jerky movement. It was all he could manage. Jughead adjusted his beanie and made to leave, brushing past Reggie with a weary sigh.

 _No_ , Reggie wanted to scream at him. Wanted to punch him, throw him to the ground and beat the smug smirk off his face. But even in the near-total darkness of the football field he could see that there wasn’t even any smirk there now, just pinched exhaustion. And he couldn’t bring himself to speak, anyways. Instead, he reached out and caught Jughead by the shoulder.

Jughead didn’t pull away. Didn’t even tense when Reggie reached out, cupped his face, and brought their lips together. He let it happen—leaned into it even—opened his mouth and let Reggie invade him.

Reggie threw himself into the kiss, twisting his fingers in the fabric of Jughead’s denim jacket. He’d been thinking about this all week, and now that it was real again it was almost too much. Fuck, he wanted this. He wanted  _Jughead;_  the taste of him, the smell of him, the—

Suddenly, he remembered where they were. Reggie tensed and drew back, casting a fearful glance around the field. It was deserted. Jughead was breathing heavily, watching him, eyes bright in the darkness.

“In here,” Reggie whispered, and half dragged, half shoved Jughead back into the locker room.

Reggie groped for the light switch. It was warm inside, and when the lights flickered on he could still see the steam curling up from the showers.

The lockers creaked as Jughead leaned against them. Reggie planted a foot between his legs, and Jughead’s hands crept to the collar of his jacket as they kissed, their lips sliding together easily.

“I’m sorry,” Reggie mumbled between kisses.

“Shut up.” Jughead’s hands found his belt and unbuckled it deftly. His fingers were cold as ice, but his touch was like fire, and Reggie stifled a groan when he slid a hand into Reggie’s boxers. Damn it, he was already so hard… He kept their lips locked together as he bucked his hips, grinding himself into Jughead’s fist.

“You really missed me, huh?” Jughead breathed, his words muffled by Reggie’s lips. There was a playful edge to his voice. Reggie grunted and shoved him back into the lockers.

“You wish, Columbine.”

“Tasteful,” Jughead said, and kissed him again. His mouth was hot and sweet, and Reggie was glad he’d thought to brush his teeth before hitting the showers.

Jughead’s mouth—he could lose himself in Jughead’s mouth. He wanted to keep kissing like this forever, but he wanted other things too—he wanted Jughead’s mouth other places, like where Jughead’s hand was moving steadily now, pulling little groans and whimpers out of him with each stroke. He imagined Jughead kneeling between his legs; undoing his pants; smirking up at him through those stupid, impossibly pretty eyelashes. Reggie wanted Jughead to suck him off in that messy way that porn actors did. He imagined Jughead’s swollen lips around his shaft with spit dripping down his chin, taking Reggie’s cock so deep he gagged—

“Shit—stop,” Reggie said shakily. Jughead’s hand slowed, but not all the way.

“Are you going to come?” he asked, and the boredom in his voice made Reggie’s face flush with humiliation. But more than that, he thought as Jughead continued jerking him, his touch painfully light—it made him furious. Everything about Jughead made him furious, and sad, and full of something else he couldn’t explain—

Reggie grabbed Jughead’s wrist and wrenched his hand away, pinning it against the lockers. The look Jughead shot him was the kind of look you’d give a particularly irritating fly. He flexed his fist, testing Reggie’s grip, but Reggie was a lot stronger; he held Jughead firm as he pressed his free hand between Jughead’s legs.

Jughead made a low noise of frustration. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said through gritted teeth.

“The hell it isn’t,” Reggie growled. He squeezed Jughead's crotch, which made Jughead’s breath hitch. Jughead closed his eyes and pressed his head back against the lockers, and Reggie watched his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed; watched the shadows of muscle move under the pale skin of his neck. He really wanted to leave marks there. Jughead’s eyes opened a sliver, and Reggie smirked.

“Reg,” Jughead said—half warning, half pleading.

“Jug,” Reggie said, mimicking his tone.

Jughead sighed and seemed to resolve himself. He reached for Reggie’s face and brought their lips together again.

Somehow, Reggie managed to undo Jughead’s jeans. He was only half hard, and Reggie liked how it felt to touch him like that—how he could feel Jughead’s dick swelling under his fingers. Reggie stroked him, smoothing his thumb over the head of his cock, already wet with precome. The memory of how it tasted made his mouth water.

Jughead’s hand moved back between Reggie’s legs, picking up where he’d left off. His touch sent little zaps of pleasure through him, and it wasn’t long before he was on the edge again, gasping into Jughead’s mouth between wet kisses. Shit, he didn’t want to come like this—he wanted Jughead to suck him off, or maybe he wanted to suck Jughead off first, or maybe…

“Fuck me,” Jughead breathed, like he’d read Reggie’s mind. Reggie drew back, heart pounding, and they stared at each other for a moment. “What?” Jughead snapped.

“Nothing. That’s—yeah. Fuck yeah.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jughead muttered as he turned around. He shivered as Reggie ran his hands down his back, over the fabric of his jacket.  _Too many layers_ , Reggie thought. But he didn’t want to waste time taking them off.

Reggie tugged Jughead’s jeans down, brought a hand to his mouth, and spat. He slicked the saliva down the length of his cock, watching keenly as Jughead spread his legs and braced himself on the lockers.

“Wait,” Jughead said. He tried to twist around, but Reggie put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

“What?” He brought his dick to the cleft of Jughead’s ass and Jughead twitched, pitching forward.

“Do you have… you know…” He trailed off.

“I don’t care,” Reggie said. “I want to do it this way.”

Jughead was quiet. Reggie leaned forward and pressed his lips against the exposed skin of his neck, sucking the tender spot between his neck and his collar bone. At the same time he rolled his hips, grinding his erection against Jughead’s ass.

“I want to fuck you raw,” he said into Jughead’s ear. “Want to… want to come inside you.”

He might have felt stupid saying something like that if the thought of it didn’t turn him on so fucking much. He expected Jughead to grumble or sigh or give him shit for trying to sound like a porn star again, but instead he let out a long breath.

“Yeah,” he said, and burst of anticipation flared in Reggie’s chest.

Reggie spat in his hand again and reached down, probing the warm, soft flesh between Jughead’s legs; he pressed a finger inside and felt a thrill when Jughead groaned softly. He pumped it in and out a few times, enjoying the way Jughead pushed back against him. Dimly he thought that he should probably do more, but he was so fucking hard he could barely think. Plus, he kind of liked it this way—he wanted it to be tight; he wanted Jughead to feel just how big he was; he wanted to stretch Jughead open and make sure he’d keep feeling him even after they were done.

Reggie brought his dick to Jughead’s hole and pushed. He grunted at the resistance and felt Jughead tense, so he worked himself back out, then pressed in again, slowly, until the head of his cock was all the way inside. Fuck, he could probably come right then without doing anything else.

He started moving gingerly, trying to keep his strokes even and his breath measured. Jughead moaned—barely loud enough for Reggie to hear—and the sound made his whole body buzz with pleasure. The locker room echoed with their breath, ragged and uneven, and the metallic creak of the lockers under Jughead’s weight.

The feeling of being inside of him was almost unbearable. He put his hands on Jughead’s hips—thin, bony—and looked down, admiring the sight of Jughead’s ass and the way his hole stretched tightly around Reggie’s dick. He wanted to keep fucking him slowly like this, but the pained little noises Jughead made didn’t exactly help with the whole  _pacing himself_  thing.

The lockers rattled as Reggie thrust harder, pulling out almost fully on each stroke before plunging back in to the hilt. He buried his face in the crook of Jughead’s neck and inhaled deeply—he smelled like smoke and rain and his skin tasted like salt. Jughead leaned into the touch, pushing himself back against Reggie and forcing him deeper.

Reggie gasped. He managed one more thrust before the pressure finally spilled over and he came hard, emptying himself into Jughead until he was completely spent and his legs shook with the effort of standing. He didn’t take time to savour the moment.

“Did you come?” he asked breathlessly in Jughead’s ear.

He felt Jughead huff. “Am I really so subtle that you have to ask?”

Reggie pulled out and stepped back. “Turn around,” he said, breathing hard, ignoring the dazed, suspicious expression on Jughead’s face when he did. His cheeks were flushed, his bangs damp with sweat; he was still wearing his jacket over that threadbare grey shirt, though it was undone and sliding off one shoulder.  Reggie licked his lips as his eyes travelled downward; Jughead’s dick was swollen and rock hard, visible just below the hem of his shirt.

Reggie didn’t waste any time—he knelt on the cold tile in front of him and took Jughead's cock as deep into the back of his throat as he could without gagging (he still wasn’t very good at that part yet, but he didn’t really mind the feeling). He worked the base of it with one hand, half jerking it into his mouth as he dragged his tongue along the underside of the shaft and back up to the head.

“Shit,” Jughead gasped. Reggie felt his hands in his hair, tugging him forward, urging him to go faster. He reached up, meaning to slip a finger inside Jughead’s ass, and groaned when he felt the wetness of his own come dripping from the swollen opening. Jughead made a strangled sound somewhere between a grunt and a gasp and then Reggie’s mouth filled with warmth. He swallowed it greedily, and didn’t take his mouth away until he felt Jughead’s hands pulling him back.

Reggie sat on his heels, breathing hard. Jughead took a few seconds to catch his breath and then he was pulling up his pants; doing up his belt. Reggie stood up and did the same, watching Jughead out of the corner of his eye as he pulled out his phone and started typing with a frown on his face. 

With a slight thrill, Reggie noted that Jughead hadn’t bothered cleaning himself up. He’d have to do it later, when he got back to his house—he’d have to think about Reggie then; he’d have to think about  _this._

And what would he think? He’d probably regret it, right? The warmth of Reggie’s orgasm was already mostly gone, and now a wide pit of uncertainty opened up to take its place. Before he knew what he was doing, he stepped forward, cupped Jughead’s face in his hands, and pulled him into a kiss.

It was different than before: not desperate for  _more_ , but for something else. They broke apart, and Jughead looked at him curiously. Reggie tried not to think about how much he liked that expression on him—eyes bright, brows furrowed, his lips pursed in the beginnings of a smile. The corners of his mouth curled up when he did that—perfect little half circles, like a cartoon character.  

“Thanks,” Reggie said, because he didn’t know what else to say. Jughead narrowed his eyes.

“You’re… welcome?”

“I didn’t think you were gonna show up,” Reggie clarified. He was still holding Jughead’s face, but it felt strangely natural. He didn’t take his hands away.

“Yeah, me neither,” Jughead said.

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know. Why did you ask me to? Besides wanting to fuck me again.”

Reggie rolled his eyes. “Shit—you got me, Nancy Drew: sex feels awesome. But despite what you might think, I wasn’t just trying to get lucky. That was like… a perk, okay? And I already told you: I wanted to apologize.”

“Yeah, but  _why?”_  Jughead asked.“Why do you even care?”

“I… I don’t know,” Reggie confessed.

“Well, we sure got to the bottom of that one.”

Jughead’s body was warm against his. Reggie trailed a hand down Jughead’s chest, thumbing the zipper of his jacket.

“What  _is_  this?” Reggie asked. “It’s something, right?” He paused and swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. “Can…  _can_  it be something?”

Jughead’s eyes flicked downwards, and Reggie studied the angles of his face—his cheeks, the soft black hair that fell into his eyes, the moles that dotted his skin like constellations.

“I don’t know,” Jughead said. “I don’t even know what that means. I’m not dating you, Mantle—not now, not ever. No way I’m going to be associated with you or your ilk in any official capacity.”

Reggie made a face. “Don’t get excited. I’m sure as hell not taking your emo ass to the movies.”

“Good. I hate movies.”

Reggie laughed, then shook his head. “I don’t know, definitely not the Twilight, anyways. But… maybe you could come over again sometime. We could… watch something. Play video games. Eat junk. Whatever.”

Jughead looked mildly surprised at the offer, but not repelled. “But Reggie, whatever would your parents think?” he asked in dramatic mock concern.

“If they ask, I’ll tell them the school assigned me a troubled youth to mentor.”

“Sure, ‘cause you’re such an upstanding citizen,” Jughead said wryly.

“Watch it, Jones. You’re talking to the guy who just scored a winning touchdown.”

“Yeah, of an offseason charity game against Riverdale’s lamest rivals. I mean, _the Pembrooke Partridges?_  Really?”

“Hey. The partridge is a fearsome bird of prey,” Reggie said seriously. “Primal. Have you ever fought a partridge?”

“Uh huh,” Jughead said, smiling just enough to make Reggie’s heart stutter. He seemed to deliberate, then he reached down, groping Reggie’s upper thigh forcefully.

“Dude,” Reggie said. “I gotta wait a little bit before I go again—”

Jughead shot him an exasperated look and pulled Reggie’s phone out of his pocket. He unlocked it and shook his head sadly. “ _Tsk tsk_ , no passcode? Aren’t you worried someone’s going to leak your nudes?”

Reggie smirked. “I don’t have anything to hide.”

Jughead was typing something, and Reggie craned his neck, trying to see the screen. After a minute, Jughead shoved the phone into his chest.

 _“'Elvira, Mistress of the Dark’?”_  Reggie said, reading out the name of the new contact Jughead had created. Jughead flicked a hand over his shoulder dramatically, like he was sweeping back long hair.

“The one and only.”

Reggie stared at the phone number. Jughead’s phone number. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “So I can… text you?”

Jughead shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. “I guess.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“Just… please, for the love of god, no dick pics.”

Reggie nodded solemnly. “So what I just heard was, ‘send lots and lots of dick pics.’”

“Dear god, what have I done,” Jughead whispered.

“You know you want it," Reggie said, and pushed him back playfully. Jughead rolled his eyes, and then they were kissing, and it was different again: lazier this time; easier without the tension of regret or need. Jughead’s mouth was soft and searching, and his body fit against Reggie’s so well…

_“Uh.”_

Reggie jumped and shoved Jughead into the lockers with a deafening crash that reverberated around the room. He whirled, trying to locate the intruder, but only managed to catch a flash of orange before Jughead’s fist caught him in the side of the head.

“Fucking  _ow_ ,” Jughead hissed, shaking out his hand as Reggie went sprawling to the floor.

“What the hell—” Reggie spluttered.

“For the last time, leave me alone, Mantle,” Jughead said loudly. Reggie opened his mouth to yell at him, but then followed Jughead’s eyes to the door, where Archie Andrews was standing dumbly, his mouth hanging open.

_“Jughead?”_

“I thought we were meeting at Pop’s,” Jughead said. His face was white as a sheet.

“I… forgot my jacket,” Archie said weakly.

“Of course you did.” Jughead squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled. Then he shook his head and stepped lightly over Reggie’s body. “Okay, time to go,” he said, and put an arm around Archie’s shoulder, trying to steer him toward the door.

Archie didn’t move. He seemed to be having difficulty processing the scene he’d just walked in on, and kept looking back and forth between Reggie and Jughead for some kind of explanation. Reggie stayed where he was on the floor, perfectly still, holding his breath. Suddenly, suspicion flashed in Archie’s eyes. He turned to Jughead, squaring his shoulders. “Did he—?”

“Disregard the meathead on the floor,” Jughead said, and tried once more to push Archie in the direction of the door.

 _“Hey!”_ Reggie said, scrambling to his feet.

“Back, meathead!” Jughead shouted at him.

“Reg, what—?”

“Fuck off, Andrews!” Reggie roared.

“Okay, what the  _hell?”_  Archie demanded.

Reggie entertained several possibilities. How hard would it be, for instance, to murder Archie? Would Jughead help him, or try to stop him? Would he have to kill Jughead too? Could he even handle killing a person, psychologically speaking? Probably not. Plus, if he killed Jughead, he wouldn’t get to have sex with him again.

“Archie,” Jughead said carefully, like he was talking someone down from the edge of a very tall building. “Let’s go to Pop’s. Okay? Let’s go get a burger.”

Archie looked at him, then back to Reggie, narrowing his eyes. He raised his arm and pointed squarely at Reggie’s chest. “I’m not going to let you push him around anymore. Got it?”

“Uh. Got it,” Reggie said.

“Okay. Let’s go,” Archie said, seemingly satisfied. He turned on his heel and stalked out the door. Reggie tried to catch Jughead’s eye, but Jughead avoided him, following Archie without a backward glance.

Then Reggie was alone again, and the only sound was the gentle drip of a leaky faucet and the creak of the building. He let out a long breath, sat down on the bench in the middle of the room, and ran a hand through his hair.

That had been a roller coaster. There was no denying what Archie had walked in on, even after whatever lame excuses Jughead would probably come up with. Archie had seen them together. That should probably freak him out more than it did. And yet…  

 _Archie had seen them together._  Reggie felt a thrill of possessive victory: no matter how much Jughead pined after Archie or laughed at his stupid jokes, Archie had seen them together—had seen Reggie pinning Jughead to the lockers, kissing him. He’d seen Jughead kiss him back.  

Reggie’s eyes fell on the burgundy bomber jacket hanging on the far side of the room. Archie’s jacket. He walked over and picked it up, weighing it in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like this fic? Why not [reblog the photoset!](https://forsythe-p-jones.tumblr.com/post/164736602739/like-blood-from-a-stone-a-reghead-fanfic) :)


	4. Chapter 4

It was Friday night, so Pop’s was nearly full. They found a booth at the back, and Jughead slid in with a long, heavy sigh. He put his head down with a flop.

“I am so ready for this burger,” he said, his words muffled by the tabletop. The vinyl of the booth creaked as Archie joined him.

“Me too.”

Jughead felt his eyes closing. Every muscle and bone and fibre of his being was exhausted. It felt like years, not days, since he’d been walking down the highway in the rain.

“Evening, boys,” came a jovial voice at his elbow. “What’ll it be?”

“Hi, Pop,” Archie said, and Jughead could hear the smile in his voice. It made him feel warm inside, like he’d just sat down beside a crackling fire on a chilly evening.

“Cheeseburger… chocolate shake,” Jughead gasped, like he was drowning in an open ocean and the mere thought of food was a lifeline. Pop chuckled.

“Same,” Archie said.

“You got it.” Pop’s footsteps retreated, fading into the background chatter of the diner and the clink of cutlery and pans that drifted from the kitchen.

Archie cleared his throat. “So. I know you probably don’t want to—and that’s fine, okay?—but… can we maybe talk about what just happened?”

Jughead groaned. “Please, god, no.”

“Jug. Come on.”

Jughead raised his head a fraction of an inch and squinted at Archie. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but—”

Archie raised his eyebrows, and Jughead sighed.

“Dude, you know I…” Archie lowered his voice awkwardly. “You know I’m here for you, right? Even if… even if things have been kind of weird lately. Even if we don’t hang out that much anymore. You can still talk to me about stuff.”

Jughead laughed bitterly. He thought about everything that had happened in the last few months. In the last few _days._ Where would he even start? No—there were some things he could never tell Archie. Things he just wanted to forget.  

“Did you and Reggie…” Archie ventured slowly.

Jughead took off his beanie and ran a hand through his hair.

Reggie goddamn Mantle. He was such a small problem in the massive, fucked up mess that was Jughead’s life. So why did thinking about him make Jughead feel so… weird?

So maybe Reggie wasn’t all bad all the time. Maybe Jughead didn’t mind kissing him, or the way he looked, or the way their insults occasionally slipped into an easy rhythm that was actually kind of fun. But that didn’t change the fact that they were utterly incompatible—if Jughead was neutrality, Reggie was pure chaos. An unpredictable element. In the end, he was only out for himself, just like everyone else.

And yet, Jughead had given pure chaos his phone number.

“Ugh,” Jughead said, and put his head back down on the table. The plastic surface was cool and soothing on his forehead. He didn’t want to think about Reggie Mantle anymore. “Nothing happened, Archie,” he muttered. “Nothing that matters.”

“Okay,” Archie said slowly. “It didn’t really look like that, though.”

“I know.”

Jughead looked up at Archie’s face, bathed in the red glow of the neon lights above them and clouded with earnest concern.

“All right,” Archie said. “If you don’t wanna talk about it, we don’t have to. But if you do… just let me know, okay?”

“Thanks, Arch,” Jughead said. “I mean it.”

Archie smiled. “So. Good game, right?”

“Yeah, the best. I particularly liked when that one guy threw you the ball. And then you ran a little bit and threw it back to him? Thrilling.”

That earned him a laugh. “Okay, I know you’re trying to be funny,” Archie said, “but we actually had a lot of great passes. Pembrooke has always been bad with that. I think I might actually have a shot at varsity next year.”

“That’s really cool, Archie. Maybe you’ll finally get one of those stupid jackets everyone loves so much."

"Yeah, maybe," Archie said brightly. Then he cleared his throat, looking serious again. "Hey, uh... are things with your dad... okay?"

"You just don't quit, do you?" Jughead sighed.

"Not really," Archie said with a half smile.

For a second, Jughead considered telling him everything. Archie would probably let him stay over—he wouldn't have to worry about packing up his stuff again, or scraping together enough cash to buy regular meals, or finding another place to sleep once the guy he was staying with finally decided that the cost of feeding him wasn't worth the perks of keeping him around. Instead, Jughead waved his hand dismissively.

"Things are fine," he said. "Just peachy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He's back on the wagon," Jughead lied. "Been going to meetings again and everything—you know, all the fun stuff." Relief washed over Archie's face, and Jughead tried to ignore the pit of guilt in his stomach.

"Good," Archie said. "Hey, did he ever get around to fixing up the roof? The rain's been really bad this year..."  

Jughead picked at a chip in the tabletop. FP couldn't afford their old house's mortgage after he'd lost his job, so he'd moved into a rundown trailer park on the South Side. Jughead had moved with him, but that had only lasted a week—a week of Spaghetti-Os and saltine crackers for dinner, a week of FP getting blackout drunk and crying in front of the TV every night, a week of sitting in frosty silence because when FP did speak to him, all he wanted to talk about was how this was all Gladys's fault. So Jughead had packed his bag and left, and he hadn't been back since. Now he imagined his dad sitting in his favourite threadbare chair, sadly nursing a beer as rainwater filled up the living room.

"Yeah, he fixed it," Jughead said.

"Cool," said Archie. "Y'know, I've been thinking... we should do something soon; something more than just getting a burger. Like old times. I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

Jughead quirked an eyebrow. "Oh yeah, like what? Build a fort in your backyard?"

"I mean, that sounds pretty fun," Archie admitted. "But I was thinking more like... camping. Maybe a road trip. Just pack up a bunch of stuff one weekend and _go."_

Jughead blinked at him. "That... actually sounds great. Let's do it."

"Yeah? Awesome. I'm kinda busy with training right now, and then I'm starting music lessons next month, but once school's out—”

“What up, losers.”

Jughead and Archie both turned. Reggie was standing beside their table, smirking down at them.

“Reggie,” Archie said stiffly. Reggie threw a small bundle at Archie’s chest—Archie’s jacket. He caught it and stared at it blankly. “Thanks,” he said.

Reggie turned to Jughead. “Move.”

“What—?” Jughead started, but before he could protest any further, Reggie sat down next to him. Jughead resisted, and they ended up in a weird kind of hip-check wrestling match until Reggie finally managed to push him over enough to sit on the edge of the booth. Jughead scowled and crossed his arms, pressing himself to the wall to try and put as much distance between them as possible.

Reggie prodded the beanie on the table. “Wow, Jones—and I thought you were bald this whole time. I’m actually a little disappointed. I’d say that’s a wig if you weren’t too poor to afford one that nice.”

“You realize you just complimented my hair, right?” Jughead pointed out. “You tried to insult me, but you literally only succeeded in saying I have nice hair.”

“Talk about selective hearing," Reggie said. "My _point_ is that you're poor. Hey, how much do you spend on hair dye every month? They give you that at the food bank or do you have to steal it from the drug store?”

Jughead opened his mouth, at a loss, then turned to Archie. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I have no idea why this is happening.”

“Calm down, Hot Topic,” Reggie said. “I’m not staying long. Just wanted to return the jacket. And say hello. And sorry.” The words were probably supposed to be humble, Jughead thought, but Reggie looked far too smug to pull that off with any kind of authenticity.

Archie’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry for what?”

“I don’t hate you, Andrews,” Reggie said loftily. “And I’m a big enough person to admit that I’ve been… _unfair_ to you. But I want to bury the hatchet. I mean, we’re probably gonna be on the same team next year.” He held out a hand to Archie over the table. “So. Teammates?”

Archie looked at it, then glanced at Jughead, who was glaring at Reggie like if he just focused hard enough he might actually be able to make his head burst into flames.

“What about Jughead?” Archie asked.

“What _about_ Jughead?”

"He's my friend. I’m not going to shake hands with you until you promise to lay off him for good.”

“Don’t worry about it, Andrews—we’re cool. Right, Jones?”

Jughead resisted the urge to hit him; his knuckles still stung from the sucker punch he’d thrown back in the locker room. “Just shake his hand, Archie,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’s not going to leave until you do.”

Reggie was unfazed, grinning broadly, his hand still hovering in the middle of the table. Archie threw one last look at Jughead before he gave in and grasped it tightly.

Reggie’s grin widened as they shook, and Jughead watched him with utter disgust. There was something _invasive_ about the way he was carrying himself. This was _Pop’s_ , for crying out loud—this was sacred ground. And here Reggie was, striding into _his_ church, forcing his way into Jughead’s booth with a smile on his face like he had just as much right to be here as they did; like there was nothing Jughead could do to stop it, because… because why? Because for some unfathomable reason, Reggie had now got it in his head that this was how their relationship operated.

“Order for Mantle?” Pop called from the counter. Reggie stood up quickly.

“Later,” he said, still smirking, and threw a wink over his shoulder that made Jughead’s blood boil. Reggie grabbed the white paper bag off the counter and left, the door tinkling innocently behind him.

“Jug…?” Archie said uncertainly, but Jughead barely heard him; he was already up and striding toward the door. He wrenched it open so hard it rattled in its frame, and caught up to Reggie just as he was getting in his car.

“What the hell is your problem?” Jughead said, more loudly than he’d meant to. He glanced around quickly, but no one else was outside.

“My problem? What’s _your_ problem? I’m trying to be nice."

"I'm sorry, that was _nice?"_ Jughead asked incredulously. "No wonder your idea of flirting is shoving my face into a locker."

Reggie stepped out of his car and shut the door. "All right. Fine. Do you want me to apologize again?"

"I _want_ you to leave me alone," Jughead shot back.

A truck rumbled past on the highway behind them. Reggie’s face was half in shadow, half soaked in neon. “So what, half an hour ago you’re kissing me, putting your number in my phone, saying we’ll hang out, and now you don’t want anything to do with me?”

Jughead groaned and buried his face in his hands, massaging his forehead vigorously.

“I don’t get it,” Reggie muttered, more to himself than to Jughead. “You want me to keep pulling your pigtails and tripping you in the hallway? You just a glutton for punishment or something? No wonder your life’s such a shitshow.”

Jughead looked up into the sky. The clouds were low, glowing orange with the reflected light from the diner and the street lamps. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said.

“What, like how you’re in love with Archie? Is that what this is about?”

“Oh please,” Jughead snapped. “We’re not wolves, Reggie; you don’t have to piss all over my life like you’re marking your fucking territory.”

Reggie laughed triumphantly. He took a step forward, so that they were only a couple of feet apart. “I’m right, huh? You're in love with that skinny ginger wannabe. You can’t stand the thought of him knowing about us.”

“Are you seriously that delusional?” Jughead hissed. “There’s no _us_ , Reggie—can you please get that through your thick skull?”

“Uh huh, sure. You’re such a hypocrite—you act all high and mighty, like you’re too good for me, then turn around and let me do whatever I want to you.” He sneered. “What would Riverdale's golden boy think if he knew how little it takes for you to give it up? Oh wait—I guess he already does.”

Jughead knew the words were empty—just Reggie being Reggie, grasping at straws, lashing out the only way he knew how—but they hit him like a punch to the stomach. He felt like he was drowning, and he shook his head, trying to throw off the crushing panic settling like a weight onto his chest.

“Yeah,” Jughead said, sounding much calmer than he felt, “‘cause you’d know all about pining after someone who’s never going to like you back, right Reg?”

Reggie’s smirk vanished almost instantly, and Jughead felt a petty burst of victory.

“I don’t—I don’t give a shit about you,” Reggie said, too quickly. “I just—”

“Good,” Jughead said coldly. There was a rumble from somewhere in the distance, and he felt a drop of rain on his cheek.

“Good,” Reggie said. “Fine. I’m so fucking over this.” He turned and stalked back to his car.

Jughead felt hollow, like someone had scooped out his insides and replaced them with stuffing. He reminded himself that it was better this way—that he and Reggie were from different worlds, and there was no point pretending they could ever really find common ground—but that didn't make it feel any better.

Reggie wrenched the car door open, then hesitated. “Guess you were right,” he said.

“What?”

“You said this was a bad idea. You were right.” His voice broke, just a little.

Jughead swallowed the lump in his throat. “I usually am.”

Reggie shook his head. “You’re the fucking worst. At least I know I’m an asshole. Thanks to you, I guess,” he added, and before Jughead could have the last word he had ducked inside the car. The engine revved to life, and Jughead squinted into the sudden brightness of the headlights. The tires squealed as Reggie reversed, then turned sharply and peeled out of the parking lot.

On the highway, a few cars whizzed past. Jughead looked back at the diner. Archie was standing by the door, waiting just inside; he looked tense, like he was ready to dash out at any moment. Jughead wondered how much he’d seen.

The rain had started to fall properly now. It was a nice picture, Jughead thought as he took it all in—the neon lights, the people in the window, the cars parked out front, slick with rain and gleaming like beacons in the darkness. It looked like a painting: perfect, unreal. Another world. He felt comfortable watching it here, from a distance.

The doorbell tinkled, and then Archie was walking out of the frame, striding towards him. Archie, who shouldn’t be his friend; Archie, who was too good to be here, too good to be looking at him in the way he was now.

Archie held out his arm, and it took Jughead a moment to recognize the crumpled bundle of material in his hand. He took his beanie slowly, turning it over, contemplating the worn fabric and the tarnished pins. He smoothed back his hair and put it on.

“Thanks,” he said, and Archie smiled.

As they walked back to the diner, Jughead couldn’t help feeling that they were balanced on a razor’s edge; the air was heavy and still, and the gentle spring rain lent a close, misty quality to the night. It was like the whole world was holding its breath. He said this to Archie, who shook his head in bemusement.

“Dude, I have no idea what that means.”


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments give me life, so let me know what you think!
> 
> Thanks for reading. ❤️

_ Sat, Apr 29, 1:38 AM _

> u up?

_ Mon, May 1, 9:16 AM _

> ur hair looks bad today  
>  jsyk

_ Thur, May 4, 10:52 AM _

> mr taylor rly is a dick to u huh

_ Tue, May 9, 12:24 PM _

> OMG taco Tuesday!!!!!  
>  i can’t believe u actually eat this food  
>  fucking prison food

_ Sat, May 27, 4:32 PM _

> saw u at pop’s  
>  how r the sexy memoirs coming

_ Sat, May 27, 7:01 PM _

> ive been working on my insults  
>  stop avoiding me so i can use them  
>  i got a rly good one abt the boston bomber

_ Sun, May 28, 2:47 AM _

> u up?  
>  rly want to kiss u

_ Thur, Jun 8, 1:12 PM _

> was wondering, is ur hat made of pubes?  
>  also y is it spiky  
>  doesnt make any sense

_ Fri, Jun 9, 6:27 PM _

> i bet i can eat more burgers than u

_ Sat, Jun 10, 10:56 AM _

> ok good job calling that bluff

_ Wed, Jun 14, 12:00 AM _

> u up?

_ Sat, Jun 17, 1:35 AM _

> haey pubehatt y dont u ever txrt me basck????  
> dr ank too muxch  
> rly wanbt 2 fuk u

_ Sat, Jun 17, 11:11 AM _

> sorry

_ Wed, Jun 21, 11:59 AM _

> so im 99% sure cheryl and polly r gonna throw hands at lunch  
>  ur gonna feel so fucking dumb if u miss it

_ Fri, Jun 23, 8:07 AM _

> last day of school  
>  last chance to suck my dick in the janitors closet

_ Tue, July 4, 12:25 AM _

> u up?

_ Tue, July 4, 12:43 AM _

> text me back or ill send u a dick pic every 10 mins for the rest of ur miserable life

_ Tue, July 4, 12:48 AM _

> 5 mins left fuckhead jones  
> 4  
> 3  
> 2  
> 1

**_Elvira, Mistress of the Dark:_ **

> _ Take a hint Mantle _

Reggie sat bolt upright in his bed, staring at his phone. The words glowed softly on his screen. He only hesitated for a minute before he sent a reply.

> no

He threw his phone away from him and rolled over with a sigh, kicking off the sheets tangled around his ankles. Summer had only just begun, but the heat was already unbearable and his mom refused to turn on the AC. He had just started to drift off to sleep when his phone vibrated. Reggie reached for it, his heart in his throat.

> _ Are you around this weekend? _

Reggie swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

> maybe  
>  y?
> 
> _ why do you think _
> 
> thought u hated me. dont have anywhere better to be for this most patriotic of holidays?
> 
> _ I do hate you.  
>  _ _ My plans fell through. _
> 
> knew ud come crawling back  
>  ur so desperate, its pathetic
> 
> _ so we’re just going to pretend your last 50 texts don’t exist? _
> 
> idk what ur talking abt  
>  phone was stolen  
>  who is this??
> 
> _ your dark mistress _
> 
> hmm doesnt ring a bell  
>  send nudes, maybe itll jog my memory

He waited, holding his breath. The animated ellipses appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared. Then, to his surprise, Jughead sent a picture: the bottom half of his face, his mouth twisted into an exaggerated frown, his jaw pressed back into his neck so far that it looked like he had two extra chins. Reggie snorted.

> good enuf  
>  brb
> 
> _ don’t you fucking dare _
> 
> hey  
>  its been a while
> 
> _ ………  
>  _ _ remind me why I thought this was a good idea _

Reggie turned on the light beside his bed. He opened the camera app and held his phone out above him, angling it so that it captured everything from his lips to the place his waistband would be if he were actually wearing underwear. He tensed, flexing just enough so that his abs were clearly visible, and snapped the picture.

Jughead’s response came almost instantly.

> _ Jesus Fucking Christ _

> well?

Reggie watched as Jughead typed. It was weird: he should probably hate the kid after everything that had happened. And he  _ did _ —for the most part. Jughead had made it abundantly clear that they would never be friends, let alone anything else, and that was something Reggie could never fully forgive.

The ellipses disappeared, but Reggie’s eyes didn’t move from the screen.

After that night at Pop’s, Jughead pulled his usual “avoidance” shtick for a couple of weeks, which was probably a good thing considering the sight of his face made Reggie want to beat it to a bloody pulp. But after a while the anger faded, Jughead came out of whatever hole he’d been hiding in, and things had more or less gone back to normal. Reggie’d never experienced anything close to _heartbreak_ (not that he would ever dream of defining his feelings for Jughead that way), but it still kind of felt like an open wound. Sometimes just thinking about it made Reggie want to hit something; other times it just made him sad.

He’d sent the first text during one of the sad times.

Of course, Jughead hadn’t responded—Reggie thought maybe the number had been disconnected, or maybe Jughead had lost his phone. He kept texting anyways, here and there, whenever anything made him think about Jughead. Sometimes he kind of forgot that Jughead was on the other side, and that he might actually be reading them.

Reggie’s heart stuttered when Jughead’s reply flashed up onscreen:

> _ meet me outside Pop’s  
>  _ _ tomorrow at 8  
>  _

Reggie grinned.

> gonna take me to the fireworks?  
> romantic
> 
> _ don’t make me slash your tires  
>  _ _ I know where you live _

He knew it would probably all end in flames again, but flames were better than nothing. They could even be kind of fun. At the very least, the sex would probably be pretty great.

Reggie yawned and rolled over, smoothing his hand over the space beside him. He felt his eyelids starting to droop, and managed to type out one last message before he finally fell asleep: 

> God bless America ;)

 


End file.
